A Cry from the Dust

By Carrie Stuart Parks

Carrie Stuart Parks utilizes her own background as a celebrated, FBI-trained forensic artist to blend fact and fiction into a stunning mystery.

A 19th-century conspiracy is about to be shattered by a 21st-century forensic artist.

In 1857, a wagon train in Utah was assaulted by a group of militant Mormons calling themselves the Avenging Angels. One hundred and forty people were murdered, including unarmed men, women, and children. The Mountain Meadows Massacre remains controversial to this day—but the truth may be written on the skulls of the victims.

When renowned forensic artist Gwen Marcey is recruited to reconstruct the faces of recently unearthed victims at Mountain Meadows, she isn’t expecting more than an interesting gig . . . and a break from her own hectic life.

But when Gwen stumbles on the ritualized murder of a young college student, her work on the massacre takes on a terrifying new aspect, and research quickly becomes a race against modern-day fundamentalist terror.

As evidence of a cover-up mounts—a cover-up spanning the entire history of the Mormon church—Gwen finds herself in the crosshairs of a secret society bent on fulfilling prophecy and revenging old wrongs.

Can a forensic artist reconstruct two centuries of suppressed history . . . before it repeats itself?

“Parks’s real-life career as a forensic artist lends remarkable authenticity to her enthralling novel, A Cry from the Dust. Her work is a fresh new voice in suspense, and I became an instant fan. Highly recommended!” —Colleen Coble, USA TODAY bestselling author

“A unique novel on forensics and fanaticism. A good story on timely subjects well told. For me, these are the ingredients of a successful novel today and Carrie Stuart Parks has done just that.” —Carter Cornick, FBI Counterterrorism and Forensic Science Research (Ret.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781401690441

Carrie Stuart Parks

Carrie Stuart Parks is a Christy, multiple Carol, and Inspy Award–winning author. She was a 2019 finalist in the Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence in mainstream mystery/suspense and has won numerous awards for her fine art as well. An internationally known forensic artist, she travels with her husband, Rick, across the US and Canada teaching courses in forensic art to law-enforcement professionals. The author/illustrator of numerous books on drawing and painting, Carrie continues to create dramatic watercolors from her studio in the mountains of Idaho.

Book preview

FOREWORD

BEFORE I MET HER, CARRIE STUART PARKS WAS already a forensic artist with years of experience in reconstructing crime scenes, drawing composites of bad guys from witness descriptions, recreating faces of the dead on—shudder!—their original skulls. Once she was interviewing a witness to a murder when she realized he was the murderer. She still has photos of people she’s had to draw the way they used to look before they were shot, clubbed, stabbed, drowned; you name it. Consequently, every dinner my wife, Barb, and I had with her and her husband, Rick—my banjo-picking buddy—included stories, some hilarious, some astounding, some a little difficult to hear while eating a rare steak.

At least twelve years ago, she said, I’ve been working on a novel. It’s just in the first stages. Would you like to take a look at it and tell me what you think?

And she said all that to Barb!

Well, Barb read it and passed the pages to me as we lay in bed. Hmm, I thought. Not bad. No, you lost me here. Ah! I like this! Ohh, Carrie, don’t do that. Now this works. Finally, I responded to the question Carrie never asked but . . . you know . . . sort of did.

Okay. I’d help her. (It was a no-brainer.)

From then on, every few weeks she hollered at the back door, Knock, knock? then brought in a case full of pens, highlighters, Post-it notes, her computer, and pages of manuscript—her homework—a copy for her, a copy for me. She read aloud; I followed. I commented; she listened and scribbled notes all over her work. She dubbed me Master and herself Grasshopper after that old Kung Fu TV show, but we were both new at it: she’d never written fiction and I’d never taught it. The learning was mutual.

And I guess it worked out.

Her perseverance alone was deserving of success, but she became a writer because she knew—and I knew—she could do it. She had the flair, the imagination, the whimsical, inventive, sometimes zany ability to go to other places in her mind and come back with the unexpected. She was a creative explosion sure to go off somewhere; all I had to do was aim her.

So . . . Ka-Boom! Here it is, Carrie’s first novel of the unexpected, mysterious, and shocking, drawing (pun intended) upon the highly specialized world of forensic art and featuring a heroine very much like herself. Hang on for the ride.

Oh, and, Carrie? Well done.

Frank E. Peretti

October 16, 2013

PROLOGUE

1857

THE BULLET EMBEDDED INTO THE DUSTY WAGON wheel, sending wood slivers flying.

Heart pounding, Priscilla James whispered a prayer through cracked lips. All I have to do is stand, Lord. The next shot’ll kill me dead. Her death would be fast and preferable to this parched agony.

She willed her muscles to push her off this blistering earth, to face the Indians who’d kept the wagon train pinned down for the past four days. Without food. Or water.

She tried to keep her gaze off the small row of crudely made crosses near the edge of the circled wagons. Seven men dropped like buckshot quail with the first hail of bullets. Three died right away, and the other members of the wagon train gave them a proper Christian burial. The preacher read the Bible and everything. She’d felt all tore up inside. Then.

Stand up. Do it now. One shot. It’ll be all over.

The breeze shifted, wafting the stench of rotting flesh.

Priscilla shivered in spite of the heat. Lying like small mounds of snow out on the prairie were the two little girls. The men said not even heathen savages would hurt children dressed like tiny angels, waving white flags and toting water buckets.

That had been two days ago.

They gave up burying the dead yesterday.

She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. No tears formed in her burning, dry eyes. The September sun lashed the reddened earth.

The child’s whimpering started up again.

Priscilla sighed, shifted farther into the buckboard’s meager shadows, and pulled the tiny girl into her lap.

Jane Baker settled down and muttered in her sleep ‘. . . I shall not want . . .’ Priscilla gently worked a snarl out of the girl’s hair. Poor lass. Who’d take care of her if I were dead?

Though Jane was nearly ten, she was runty and looked half her age. She lost her ma only four weeks ago, birthing. The baby scarcely took a breath before it, too, died. Her pa, an old man with a scarred face and slight limp, said they’d leave the wagon train at Salt Lake City, but he took sick just before they reached their goal. He must have had brain fever, ’cause he ranted like a madman for a week. He was just getting better when the Indians killed him; he now rested under one of the three crosses.

Priscilla’s uncle was buried next to Jane’s pa.

Priscilla figured that sort of made Jane her ward. None of the remaining settlers would have anything to do with the child. They said she was wrong. Touched. Some even said the Devil was in her.

Another bullet smacked into the buckboard.

Priscilla jumped.

Maybe that’s the solution. They’d both try fetching water. They’d die heroes.

The murmuring of voices roused her from the sooty black thoughts. The grumbling grew to excited calls. White men!

Praise God. We’re saved! Mrs. Dunlap waved a hankie. Settlers poured from the circled wagons, pointing.

Goose pimples broke out on Priscilla’s arms. Thank You, Lord.

In the distance she spotted several men on horseback, waving flags. They’d come! Mr. Fancher’s plan worked. Last night he’d sent three of their best scouts to find help.

She’d soon be out of Utah Territory, in California. Home with her folks. She wrapped grubby fingers around the locket holding pictures of her ma and pa. Little Jane had her own treasure, a small packet never far from her. Priscilla peeked once when Jane was sleeping, but there wasn’t any money or jewels, just a journal and photo of her pa.

Jane would get better in California. Priscilla would take care of her.

Jane jumped to her feet to join the milling throng. Priscilla followed, squinting at the two men waving white flags and slowly riding toward the camp.

Mormons, a man standing next to Priscilla said and spat on the ground. Don’t never trust ’em.

Priscilla nodded. Mormons refused to sell them fresh supplies since they entered Utah Territory, and food was all but gone even before the Indians ambushed them. Priscilla even thought she saw white men driving off their livestock after first slaughtering some of the cattle.

Maybe so, she said. But they be lookin’ like saviors right now.

One stranger dismounted, handed the reins of his bay horse to his companion, and continued forward. The settlers crowded around him. Priscilla caught the words Indian agent, but she couldn’t get close enough to hear more. The weary smiles around her spoke of good news. The agent waved, jumped on his horse, then spurred it to a gallop. The two men quickly disappeared.

Funny. The scouts weren’t with them. Maybe they were waiting up the trail. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Stop fussing now. We’re safe.

Jane stood motionless, gazing after the retreating men, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Priscilla touched her on the shoulder and shook her sleeve. It’s over. Come on, Jane.

Jane’s lips moved. Priscilla bent closer to hear.

‘. . . cry from the dust . . . ,’ Jane said. ‘. . . for vengeance—’

Priscilla cupped the small child’s face in her hands and stared into her unfocused eyes. Heavens t’be, the last of the girl’s mind was going.

After grabbing Jane by the wrists, Priscilla twirled her in a circle. Come on, we’re going to California. You can come to my party.

Priscilla stopped spinning, stood motionless, then touched her hair. I must be a sight. She pulled Jane to the Conestoga where she retrieved a comb and mirror. The mirror’s image shocked her. She’d lost weight and her skin was brown from dirt and the sun. With no water to wash up, she contented herself with brushing and braiding her hair.

Jane continued to mutter, ‘. . . vengeance . . . destroy . . .’

The thud of hooves and creak of wood announced the return of the man, this time accompanied by two wagons.

Surrender your weapons, the Indian agent shouted. Put them in the bed. Wounded go into the second wagon. We’ll walk you out of here.

Grinning broadly, Priscilla took Jane’s hand. The rescuers marshaled women and children first, then the men. Slowly, like the Israelites leaving Egypt, they followed their Moses. Priscilla hummed and swung Jane’s arm. A crisp breeze brought the smell of sweet prairie grass, and Priscilla breathed deeply.

‘Yea, though I walk . . . shadow of death,’ the young girl whispered. ‘I will fear no evil . . .’

The valley narrowed, with rocky outcroppings and sagebrush hemming in the straggling group. The agent reined in his horse. He was near Priscilla, and she smiled slightly at him.

He didn’t seem to notice. He rose in his stirrups, looked around, and shouted, Do your duty!

The rocks seemed to burst into life as Indians hurtled down upon them, shrieking, shooting, chopping, slicing through the women and children.

Priscilla froze.

Mrs. Dunlap, walking beside Priscilla and carrying her baby, fell dead with a bullet piercing her forehead. Eight-year-old Sarah Fancher’s scream was cut short as a crazed Indian sliced her throat.

Heart pounding, unable to breathe, Priscilla bolted, yanking Jane with her.

They ran like jackrabbits, dodging the rocks, shrubs, bodies, and frenzied killers. The air filled with the reek of copper and screams of anguish. A huge man stabbed a bayonet into young Henry Cameron, screaming, For Jehovah!

Not Indians. Mormons.

Something punched her, and a million scorpions stabbed her side. Priscilla stumbled and lost her grip on Jane. The child flew through the air as one of the bloodied men grabbed her up.

The landscape blurred and she glanced down. A red stain spread up her dress. Her legs refused to hold her. She spun, slamming into the earth.

The sun blinded her for a moment, then a man blocked it. The big man.

Please, spare me. Priscilla raised her praying hands toward him. I’ll do anything. Please . . . oh, please . . . I’ll be your slave . . .

For Jehovah, he shouted, and thrust the bayonet.

CHAPTER

ONE

MOUNTAIN MEADOWS, UTAH, PRESENT DAY

ARE THESE FROM THE THREE BODIES THEY DUG up? The question came from my right.

The first of the early-afternoon tourists gathered just outside my roped-off work area. More people charged toward me, ignoring glass-fronted display cases holding historical articles and docents in navy jackets hovering nearby.

You can’t beat disembodied heads on sculpting stands to draw a crowd.

The open, central structure of the Mountain Meadows Interpretative Center featured towering windows that overlooked the 1857 massacre site. The architect designed the round building to resemble the circled wagons of the murdered pioneers. Exhibits were below the windows or in freestanding showcases, allowing visitors an unobstructed view of the scenery, with directional lighting artfully spotlighting displays. In the center of the room was a rock cairn, representing the hastily dug mass grave where the US Army interred the slaughtered immigrants more than two years after the attack.

A woman in a lime-green blazer with the name of a tour group ushered silver-haired couples past the welcome banner to a tidy grouping on my left. Neatly dressed families with a smattering of dungaree-clad teens joined the spectators and advanced to my cluttered corner.

Out the window I could see another surge of visitors scurry through the late-summer heat from the tour bus parked on the freshly paved lot.

A hint of sweat, deodorant, and aftershave replaced the odor of fresh paint and new carpeting. I double-checked to be sure the two finished, reconstructed skulls faced toward the vacationers. The clay sculptures rested on stands looking like high, three-legged, wooden stools with rotating tops. I’d nicknamed the three Larry, Moe, and Curly. Larry and Moe were complete, resting on shoulders made of wire covered with clay. Once I finished Curly, all three would be cast in bronze for permanent display.

The questions flew at me from all sides. Who are they?

Are real skulls under that clay?

Doesn’t it bother you to touch them?

I opened my mouth, but before I could deliver the memorized greeting, the chunky director pushed through the visitors. Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Mountain Meadows Interpretative Center. I’m Bentley Evans, the director. He waited a moment for that important piece of information to sink in.

Most of the crowd ignored him and continued to pepper me with questions. I thought all the bones were busted up.

I heard Brigham Young was responsible.

That last comment got the attention of two young men in short-sleeved white shirts, black ties, and badges designating them as elders.

Elders? I studied their fresh, adolescent faces. I had older shoes in my closet.

Ahem, yes, well, Mr. Evans continued. This is Gwen Marcey, world-renowned forensic artist. She’ll explain this project.

He turned toward me, tilted his head back, steepled his hands in front of his mouth, and raised his eyebrows.

His body language screamed arrogance.

A trickle of sweat ran down my back. I could have used a vote of confidence right about now. Sometimes I wished I didn’t know so much about nonverbal communication. Remember why you’re here. This could open the door to that new position for a regional, interagency forensic artist. It wasn’t the title I wanted so much, but a steady paycheck—and the first step toward returning my life to normal. Whatever normal was now.

The crowd shifted and rustled like a hayfield stirred by the wind. A new set of tourists joined the throng, bunching together on my right and pushing against the hunter-green velvet ropes.

My heart pounded even faster as I placed the wire-tipped tool on the sculpting stand. Speaking in front of people had never fazed me, but it had been a year since I’d done a presentation. A year since my divorce. A year since I was diagnosed with cancer. Just keep thinking it’s like riding a bicycle . . .

So, do you, like, always work on dead bodies? A shaggy-haired young man in front of me ogled the display.

I breathed easier. A simple question. Sometimes. These three—I caught myself before calling them Larry, Moe, and Curly—are historical cases, so I’m using plaster castings done by a company that specializes in reproductions. The real skulls were reburied with the bodies over there. I pointed to a small cemetery outside. On forensic cases, I would use the real thing. I also work on court exhibits, crime scene sketching, and composites—

But isn’t all that stuff done on computers now days? A young girl snapped a photo of me with her iPhone.

Well, you know the old saying, ‘garbage in, garbage out.’

Huh? She lowered the phone and scrunched her face.

The idea that computers can replace artists is the same as computers replacing authors because of spell check. You need the knowledge. The computer is just the tool.

So you still use a pencil? The girl pointed at my head. Is that why you have two behind your ear? Several people chuckled.

You bet. I self-consciously tugged one out and placed it on my stand. Anyway, the National Park Service and Mountain Meadows Society hired me to reconstruct the faces of the only three bodies formally buried at the site and recovered intact. I took a deep breath and released it. Outside of the pencils, no one stared at my face or commented on my appearance. I picked up a chunk of clay and began to form an ear.

Why only three? one of the young missionaries asked.

Before I could frame my answer, a woman jammed a guidebook under his nose. Didn’t you read this?

I stiffened. Her sarcastic tone reminded me of my ex-husband I squeezed the clay ear into a shapeless blob.

It says right here. She had everyone’s rapt attention. Most of the bodies were chopped up and left out to rot and be eaten by wild animals.

"Ahem, well . . . I cleared my throat. The director’s voice echoed in my brain. There might be people upset about the interpretive center. Mormons who don’t believe it really happened, anti-Mormons looking for any excuse to bash the church, descendants of the survivors who think the whole event was buried as a cover-up, Native American activists who are angry that the Indians were blamed for the slaughter, you name it. The Mountain Meadows Massacre is a relatively unknown part of American history. We don’t really know how visitors will react to learning about it for the first time. Just remember: remain neutral."

A man in Bermuda shorts standing next to her added, It was the worst domestic terrorist attack in America.

I dropped the blob of clay. Well, technically, the Oklahoma City bombing—

They blamed the Indians. The woman’s voice went up an octave. She looked like a freeze-dried hippie from the sixties, complete with headband holding her long gray hair in place.

I wiped my clay-covered hands on my jeans. After the—

Go ahead: say it. The woman wouldn’t give up. "After the massacre."

We don’t—

A young man with a long chin, wearing a yellow CTR wristband and a button-down shirt, now waved a similar guidebook. That’s right. Over one hundred and forty innocent people—

Unarmed men, women, and children, brutally slaughtered! finished a chunky woman spilling out over a too-revealing, sleeveless T-shirt stating as/so.

The protesters surged forward, crunching the blue plastic tarp protecting the carpeting from stray clumps of clay. I moved to the front of my display and tried to speak again. The—

A tiny woman in a plain, black dress adorned only with a silver pendant piped in. The killers were Mormon fanatics calling themselves Avenging Angels.

The voices flew at me like wasps. An older woman with a cane stumbled slightly as Button Down shoved against her. I caught her arm before she could fall and glared at the man. He blinked at me, then slunk off, followed by several fellow agitators.

Thank you, the woman said. A most unfortunate individual. Why do you suppose they are so upset? The Mountain Meadows Massacre happened over a hundred and fifty years ago.

People still fight over the Civil War. I guess anger and revenge don’t have a time limit. I was tippy-toeing on the edge of neutrality. Bentley Edwards would have my hide. I glanced around for the man, finally spotting him overseeing the refreshments.

How did you know what they looked like? a man on my left asked. A new set of tourists now stood in front of me.

I moved closer to Curly. Your skin and muscles are on top of your bones, so bones are the foundation. If you feel here—I placed my finger on the outer edge of my eye socket—the tissue is very thin and you can easily feel your skull. Here on your cheek—I poked the spot—it’s very thick.

Half the listeners began touching their faces.

I cut tissue-depth markers to precise lengths and glue them on the skull. Then I build up the clay. I was probably rubbing clay all over my face so I dropped my hand. Any more questions?

How about the nose? How do you know what that will look like?

I measure the nasal spine. I placed my finger at the base of my nose and pushed upward. You can feel the bottom of it here.

Several people poked at their noses.

The tip of your nose is three times the length of your nasal spine, and on Caucasians, the width is five millimeters on each side of the nasal aperture.

Any survivors? asked a spiky-haired girl with black lipstick.

I nodded toward a nearby display. Yes. The information about the survivors is over there. Seventeen children were spared, all under the age of eight.

Why eight? asked a young man wearing a North Idaho College T-shirt. Numerous other teens, all wearing similar shirts, surrounded him, though most appeared riveted by the electronic devices in their hands. The image of my fourteen-year-old daughter, Aynslee, swam into my mind, and I glanced at my watch. Her classes would be wrapping up for the day. Maybe today she’d talk to me on the phone. She’d refused since I’d sent her to the academy. My eyes burned and my nose threatened to start running.

Ha! The left-over hippie woman stepped from behind a post. The Mormons figured they were too young to remember.

For crying in a bucket, don’t you have somewhere else to go? I slammed a piece of clay into Curly’s cheek. I sighed, then wrinkled my nose at her.

She stuck her tongue out at me.

Well, that was mature. I turned my back on the visitors and concentrated on smoothing the clay.

An overweight man wearing a Hawaiian shirt stretched the barrier around my work area inward, as if to physically intimidate me. I could now easily read the button he wore: No More Mormon Cover-Up!

"I suppose you’re one of them," he whispered.

His stale beer breath made me gag. I glanced around. No, I whispered back, pointing at my reconstructions. I can’t be one of them. They’re made of plaster and clay. I checked around again. "They’re not real, but I understand there’s a huge government cover-up in Nevada. Area 51 . . ."

The man reared back, mouth open, giving me one last whiff of bad breath, and waddled away.

I really needed to study the definition of neutral. And the grumpy protesters needed to go home and form a bowling league.

Nice job, a male voice commented to my left.

I turned. Craig Harnisch, a deputy in my hometown of Ravalli County, Montana, stood next to me. I’d worked with him on numerous cases over the years. Hey there, stranger! You’re a few miles from home.

Hey, back. I have family not far away in St. George. Thought I’d drop by and see what Ravalli County’s favorite forensic artist was up to. Heard about the preview opening from my in-laws.

We actually open in a week and a half or so. A bunch of poo-bahs and folks with deep pockets wanted to see everything before the opening. Director Edwards figured the visitors wouldn’t mind using temporary vending machines and Porta Potties to catch a preview of the new center. Thought it would bring extra publicity. Bet he didn’t count on the protester cartel.

I liked your snarky comeback, Craig said.

It’ll probably buy me a formal reprimand. I picked up a dab of clay. I’m supposed to stick with the scripted answers.

A flat, slightly nasally female voice announced through the loudspeakers, Refreshments are being served by the north wall. The ever-hungry teens drifted toward the offering of free food while the adults continued to admire the displays.

I noticed Button Down, Hippie Lady, Chunky Woman, and Black Dress all gathered around Beer Breath, listening intently. Their body language indicated he was their leader. Craig, is there a chance these people—I jerked my head at the group—could be professional agitators?

Craig turned to look in the same direction. You think someone could be paying them to cause problems?

Yeah, I do. Director Edwards said resurrecting the past like this might stir up trouble. And, well, technically, there was a cover-up. Of sorts.

What do you mean?

I checked to be sure the director was out of earshot. Back in 1999, a backhoe was digging some footings for a new monument and accidentally scooped up the remains of at least twenty-nine bodies. Under Utah law, it’s a felony to rebury any human remains discovered on private land without a scientific study, so a forensic anthropologist started to examine some of the bones. She’d just started to report on the brutal attack—I moved closer and lowered my voice—and stated that white men, not the Paiute Indians, committed the massacre. But before the study was completed, the governor, a descendant of one of the Mountain Meadows killers, demanded the bones be reburied and all research stopped. The families were furious.

Okay. What’s your point?

Just look at the people causing the uproar. I nodded in their direction.

I am. So?

So, Director Edwards mentioned the people who might be upset by this center: Mormons, anti-Mormons, Native Americans, and families related to those killed.

And . . . ?

That group is totally mismatched.

And you can tell this because . . . ?

"Look at them. The woman in the black dress is wearing a pendant with a sego lily, the symbol of the LDS Relief Society. And the man in the button-down shirt has a CTR—Choose the Right—wristband. That’s the Mormon version of ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ "

All you’ve proven is that you’re observant, which I already knew.

"I’m not done. The guy in the Hawaiian shirt was drinking. Mormons don’t drink. And the chunky lady’s wearing a T-shirt with a shortened form of ‘as above, so below,’ a Wicca saying that everything is balanced. Except for that guidebook and Cover-Up buttons, they have nothing in common. They sound like they’re reading from a script. And they just seem . . . wrong."

Ah, yes, your famous antenna. Craig’s mouth twisted into a skeptical grin. You’re always analyzing. You let things get to you. Finish your work and hurry back home. I’ve got a cold case I want you to look at.

Does Ravalli County finally have the money to pay me?

"Are you kidding? You’ll get

Reviews for A Cry from the Dust

[kmajort · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is in many ways my cup of tea, and not. I like:
Police-procedural mysteries
Forensic mysteries
Female leads with not too much angst

I don't like Christian fiction...
But this wasn't too in-your-face or holier than thou, so it didn't distract from the story, was simply a part of it. But it may deter me from reading more, although I read this story very quickly and was very absorbed.
The historic bits were intriguing enough to send me to Wikipedia & various LDS websites. And manipulating history for a good story is fun.
So, decide for yourself.

I received this book via Goodreads Giveaway.

[vintagebeckie · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I now have a new must-read author! A Cry from The Dust by Carrie Stuart Parks is an excellent edition to the suspense genre. With a flawed, but relatable major character, well-drawn secondary characters and well-researched and detailed plot, this novel kept me listening, to the detriment of all else pending in my life! I could not get enough of Gwen Marcey!Gwen Marcey is a forensic artist working on a reconstruction for the site of a mid-1800s Mormon massacre in Utah. It soon becomes apparent that her re-creation of one of the victims has triggered the interest of a number of groups — anti-Mormon activists and fundamental religionists. Gwen is soon plunged into a race to find out who is behind the murders and uncover a far reaching conspiracy. And while her personal life may be a little (ok, a lot) messy, she is at that top of her game professionally as she races the clock.Gwen is a wonderful character. Parks has given her an impeccable professional background that has been impacted by a messy divorce with all its fall out and a battle with breast cancer. Recovery seems to be around the corner, until she is faced with a rebellious teenager, unforgiveness towards her ex-husband and a ruthless fundamentalist group determined to trigger an apocalypse. Gwen is resourceful and determined and becomes a mama bear when her daughter is in danger. The plot of conspiracies surrounding the Mormon church and fringe and splinter groups is intriguing and touched on a part of history I was not aware of. I was kept on the edge of my seat, while trying to guess just who was behind it all.The audiobook version was very well done and the narrator did a good job with just the right amount of emotion mixed in.All in all a great first book from another talented author. I am eager to read more! The Bones Will Speak has just released. Yay!Recommended.Audience: adults.

[hjvanderklis_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Mountain Meadows Interpretative Center asked forensic expert Gwen Marcey to reconstruct the faces of three intact bodies that were discovered from the 1857 wagon train massacre of more than 120 people by Mormon fanatics calling themselves Avenging Angels. A secret from the 19th century could still endanger thousands of lives gathered for a Peace Conference. Marcey, divorced and a breast cancer survivor is suspected to be that loner cop that can solve murder cases on her own.Rebellion, kidnapping, escape, death and mysterious shootings lead Marcey not only deeper into the Latter Day Saints organization and splinter groups, where polygamy, substitution. a dead mask and blood atonement practices weave a web to keep your attention towards the very last page. Marcey has to race against time to unmask the real murderer, free herself from traps and avoid a third massacre on 9/11.A Cry from the Dust is well-written, and has both credible characters and a convincing plot. Fiction woven between historical and forensic facts without becoming to technical on either side.

[niaomiya · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a fantastic debut novel! Incorporating a fascinating mix of history and fiction, first-time author Parks treats us to an enthralling murder mystery that delves into the history of the Mormon church. Being a real-life forensic sculptor/artist, Parks infuses into her heroine Gwen Marcey a real sense of what it's like to be a forensic sculptor/artist. Gwen is a likable heroine; she has survived cancer and a divorce, and she is fiercely independent yet with very believable twinges of vulnerability.All the characters in this book are well-developed, their interactions flowing nicely with the fast-moving plot. There is a lot of action mixed with a lot of the cerebral - a perfect combination that makes for a gripping story. Parks has clearly done meticulous research on the founding and splintering of the Mormon church, and the discoveries that Gwen makes relating to the church are just as fascinating as the discoveries she makes regarding the murder mystery itself.This novel was a great start to a promising writing career. It is implied that this is the first in a series and that we will be seeing Gwen Marcey again. I can't wait!

[busyreadin · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Interesting story based on Mormon history. An unusual heroine.